ALFRED MASUNDA- the Future of Digital and Visual Art in Zimbabwe and the Abroad!

MPMBIZO3 The  third  month of the year  in  Zimbabwe marks  the celebration of theatre , women and poetry . This March  we are celebrating  the  amazing digital  artistry  and visual art prowess of   our  own  powerful , captivating  and  creative digital art  and visual artist  of note  ,Alfred Masunda  who  is bound to take  this world  by storm.Welcome  to his  world .  You  can  hire him to create  any  digital  art or visual design ,this artist will always deliver.Marketing , advertising   and communications  departments  in  banks ,NGOs , government department , cooperate organisations and universities Meet Alfred Masunda for  the best of work , promotions ,branding and visibility .  You  can always contact  us  at Mbizo Chirasha- Editor/Publisher)


Exhibitions , Projects  and  Experience  of Alfred Masunda

Annual Members exhibition at AVA Gallery, Cape Town (South Africa) 2017

HIFA (Harare International Festival of Arts) 2015/ 2017

Wild Geese Art Festival 2016/ 2017

The Annual Green Shoots Students Exhibition at National Gallery of Zimbabwe (December 2013, February 2015)

Young Artists Exhibition at National Gallery of Zimbabwe (February 2014)

The Annual Young Artists Exhibition at Gallery Delta (February 2014, February 2015)

Urban Harvest Exhibition at Joina City Complex (2014)

The Annual Tavatose Schools Exhibition at the National Gallery of Zimbabwe (2014)



ZIFFT {ZIMBABWE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL TRUST} workshop and worked on two short film productions

A PHOTOGRAPGHY  at Zimbabwe International Female Photographers Association


A TRAINING  workshop on Realism painting with John Kotze

A TRAINING workshop on installation art  

AFRO LUSSO 4.  Artists Workshop 2017


Alfred Masunda  A MASUNDA is a young, talented Zimbabwean digital artist and a writer. His short stories and drawings got published in the local paper ‘The Sunday Mail’ and scooped many awards during his high school years. His professional artistic journey began at The National Gallery of Zimbabwe. He specialized   in Digital illustration and photography. He inspired by telling the true Zimbabwean and African stories. Alfred developed a passion in writing poetry. Through poetry the artist hopes to reach and inspire a wider audience. Masunda is fast gaining experience in Art, exposure and is willing to participate in art exchanges and share his art with diverse communities around the world.



Facebook – Alfred Masunda   .

Instagram – Sirdee94   .

Email –  .
PHONE–    +2637 229 628


The King of Verse to come out of Mongolia- Hadaa Sendoo!( Time of the Poet)



MPImage may contain: one or more people, eyeglasses and closeup Hadaa Sendoo is an international voice   and a father figure in the global world literature scene. Sendoo is an avid writer, a great poet, determined editor and internationally recognized translator   and a publisher of repute. The Miombo Publishing Time of the Poet is proud to bring such a legendary creative mind to its community of readers and followers. Poets and Writers should pluck a leaf from the life and writings of Great poet Hadaa Sendoo. We continue to thank our followers, readers and supporters. Contact us at Let’s celebrate together – Literatura Infinita!- (Mbizo  Chirasha-Time of the Poet Editor.)


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Why does heaven exist? When you and I

Are in no doubt it doesn’t

Why does love exist? When you and I

Are in no doubt it doesn’t


Why does hell exist? When you and I

Are in no doubt it doesn’t

Why does re-incarnation exist? When you and I

Are in no doubt it doesn’t


Why do souls not exist? When you and I are

In no doubt they do

Why does the next life not exist? When you and I are

In no doubt it does.


Why does the motherland not exist? When you and I are

In no doubt it does.

Why is our language in our blood?

Why is it our native home?


Why does the yurt become part of our spirit?

Our spirit is a heroic epic

While that blue smoke slowly rising

And comforts my homesickness




It is June, there’s cold rain and I

am alone like a wolf

When I look into the distance

There’s just the sky without borders


Now, I’m living

And often feel

this pain

is only a tie that binds





Should we pay the bill, for all we’ve

Done in this life?

Why do our tear-filled eyes

Meet with no sympathy, from other eyes?


Should I, without greed,

Face certain death

And must I compromise to find freedom?

Is it only fortune-telling

That brings me peace?


Will I live

With inexpressible pain hidden

In the deepest recesses of my heart

While I put on a show of happiness?


Will I always endure humiliation –

At the final moment

Let go of the hand of pain

Amid the sounds of dawn’s raindrops, let the earth’s breeze

Close my eyes?






To Adonis


I fear time

as if I fear that love will change

I fear spider webs

as if I fear to lose my memory


I fear the big bright lamp*

as if I fear that father’s eyes will close forever

I fear all illusions

as if I fear that an egret will fall from the sky


I fear lightning

as if I fear that

until death comes, poet

your soul will still suffer deep sorrows

Because you can not kiss your old mother





We can only live in our dreams

The paths of our dreams stretch to the Middle Ages

I take leave from humiliation, and rush to Florence

In search of Tasso’s old home. There

I long to grip Michelangelo by the hand

Or meet the fairies in Da Vinci’s paintings


Only dreams and poetry are inseparable

They are not vain or hypocritical

As they rush into the depths of my soul,

I write this line: at the centre of the earth

We can only live in our own age

We can only thank this life’s pain


Sendoo Hadaa (b.1961)Image may contain: Hadaa Sendoo is a poet and translator of international renown. He has lived in Ulaanbaatar, capital of Mongolia since 1991. He has won awards for poetry in india, the USA, Canada, Greece, China, and Russia, including the Mongolian Writers’ Union Prize. Since 1989, he has published 15 books of poetry. Sendoo’s recent collections of poems include “Sweet Smell of Grass (in Persian 2016), “Aurora” (in Kurdish 2017), “Mongolian Long Song” (in Georgian 2017), WENN ICH STERBE, WERDE ICH TRÄUMEN (in German-Mongolian bilingual 2017)”Mongolian Blue Spots” (in Dutch,2017), and ” A Corner of the Earth”(in Norwegian 2017).Sendoo Hadaa’s influence transcends national and ethnic borders and he is recognized as a great poet of the 21th century. In 2006, he founded the ground-breaking World Poetry Almanac, which he continues to edit. Presently he also served as co-Chairman of the Council of Writers and Readers of the Assembly of Peoples of Eurasia, in Russia.



A Poetess Extraodinaire!- Chrispah Munyoro

MPImage may contain: one or more people, eyeglasses and closeup Chrispah Munyoro grew up   with Poets like Mbizo Chirasha, Daniso Collins and writer Munyaradzi Makoni in Gweru. The poetess is a versatile personality who dabbles in a myriad of projects that include sports, visual arts, journalism and poetry. She wrote extensively for the home newspaper the Gweru Times for more than 7 years from a tender age of   16 years. Chrispah boasts of a bold pen and a strong creative acumen ship. The poet , artist , writer got much of her inspiration  from established writers like David Mungoshi , late Stephen Alumenda,  Jabulani Mzinyathi, Augustine Deke  and Ignatius Musonza .  She  was versatile  in forming  the  Association of Freelance  Journalists   Gweru Chapter  and she led the chapter for   several years.Chrispah  was also   a member  of the Budding  Writers Association  of Zimbabwe and  Zimbabwe Writers Union  .Munyoro  is a  unique character and poet who wishes to her work  being read across  the globe .We  are greatly humbled to bring to the reader this  eminent voice . Contact,

Poetica  infinita!-( Mbizo Chirasha- Editor)

Image may contain: 3 people, people standing


Looking beyond the great hills.
Bathing in sweat.
Breathing hot air like a dragon.
Heart beat measured in mega-seconds.
For the umpteenth clock, signing.
The sigh controlling choking tears.

Yes I could empty the sea.
For blood had profusely pumped from my flesh.
Not by blood donation.
The goons happily enjoying.
While the masses are shrivelling.
Seeped of the great future.
Stolen is the willpower to live.

I see desert in an oasis.
Shuddering of the masses.
Swimming in green waters.
Drinking the dirty waters to try quenching the thirst.
The hunter dancing with the hopeless.
Its red eyes full of wrath.
All in all it is grinning widely.
Squashing the flies on its mouth.
So plenty, you would say it’s the lord of the flies.
Tail slicing the human throats with no mercy.
You would think it’s the honour of world.
So cunning and cruel that it repulses.
Intellects playing poker with beggars.

The roulette turning mercilessly.
Bazookas carried like beloved babies.
The hardness of the casino of breathing.
All looking at the mountain with great expectations.
Expecting fruits of life.
Only stones stuck them in amazement.
Dropping their machetes in awe.

Africa the beauty of the world.
Full of crops in granaries.
Still shrivelling in hunger.
The bumper harvests caught by spider webs.
Built with razor wires.
To go have a handful you step on scorpions.
Their venom so deadly.

While the flashy bath in ice cream
Drinking blood in wine glasses.
Babies robbed of their future.
Smoking glue, nyaope.
While they sip Musombodia from water bottles.
Drugging themselves to raffats.
Injecting lethal medicines in dine.
Africa wake up from the slumber.
Smell the fragrance of perfumed life ahead.
You are full of hope for the whole world.


The bizarre nexus of our era.
Epoch of paranoia ideology.
In dire poverty we are stranded.
Dejected, neglected and rejected.
From our freedom of action.
Our minds race-pacing.
Triplingly pace-racing.
Men become enemies of each other.

The weird phantasmal dribbling in Africa.
Blood wars purpling the Heath.
Deep down when stones are things of beauty.
From Mbujimai to the corridors of Rwanda
And Burundi caves.
The dances bumping from Congo like tennis balls.
Dances full of limping.
Terrorism destroying the populace.
The smoke of uncertainty and gruesome pain
Gripping Zimbabwe





God made the earth.
The earth was pure, fresh.
Without any hindrance or worries.
What did the men do?
Men created chaos.
Destroying and trying to be idols.
That in it shredded this blemish.

America you decided you are an intellect.
By experimenting with science.
People kill babies under the more innocent,
Name of family planning.
Death springing from America.

Tears in Africa
Falling dismally to those who misuse the church.
Who view it as a market exchange?
Deserting the lord in jolly.
Praying to him in desperation.
Warning!! The church is not a stock exchange.

Those leaders who rules by iron rods.
Their hearts pumping subterfuge.
Who thinks he is above the law.
They can’t be asked for their actions.
Doing whatever they want like the wind.
Believe me men you are heartless.
Zombies full of fear for your steps pro tour.
In a world of action and reaction.
Wow you for the dirty money discriminating us.
Think deeply about the day of judgement.
The pieces of silver and notes .
Are useless in after life.

A man’s place is under God’s commandments.
Tip me men what will become
Of your ruthlessness?
Tell me what will happen on that day?
On the day of judgment what will you do?
I bet you shall be gnashing teeth.
Running for cover with terror.
Take heed! it shall be regretful.
But you can’t change the hands of time.
Ammagedeon is gonna strike.
Like the speed of lightning.
On the judgement day.



From the corridors of doom.
The wicked smell of burnt hopes.
Like a blasted bomb.
Hovering, darker than black.
Blinding the skies.
Are choppers pouring stench.
Spraying the perfume called tear gases.
So cruel, with their speed.
Cutting life like a red hot sword.

From what was once a golden sceptre.
Blood is flowing, colouring everything.
Vomit being the special meal.
Bathing in salty sweat.
Quenching thirst by pus.
The flesh being ravaged strategically.
Ohhhh the skeletons are dancing.
Their voices so muffled and terrible.
Soaring every grain of land.
No helper, their brains scattered.

The phantasmal scenario.
Blood taken for toasts.
By the vampires.
Smiling for a mile in jolly.
The human flesh being bried.

Chuckling while they put salt.
Which tastes like the pepper.
To dare that you are in pain.
You face the wrath from Hades.
Licenced by hell.

Miss you, cherish you.
The once great blemis.
Of peace and serenity






In the deepest dark pitch.
I beamed at great heights.
Heights I never reached.
I looked to the skies.
In deep thoughts and wonder.

A voice whispered in my ear,
‘Move on, get up, endure for you are in the right track.
Heart pounding, sweating and shivering.
Still I couldn’t let go.
The words rolling in my mind which made me alive and purposeful.
To my creator, I whispered ‘I salute you.
I clap hands for you.
Always grateful for the spirit of development.’
I knelt down showing my appreciation.
A lot to explore with my mind and pen.


The river is aware of the tide of the waves.
Dangers of Lucifer’s angels had claimed the throne.
In deep waters upon.
Every tidal wave.
Crystal placid lays a bay of blue waters.

Lord bless me with rainbow, you are with me.
The moon, sun, enchanting wind.
To wake the tidal passion within my heart.



There in the valley.
Stood the chocolate rose.
For God had gave all the beauty.
Like an angel in flight!

That makes my heart, to skip some beats.
Like in Wonderland,,, ohhh yeah.
Only there is no Alice.
I miss and cherish you most.

Dreaming for your tender heart.
A real woman on great valour.
Perfuming my nostrils.
With your unique fragrance.
Your laughter ringing in my ear like a ringtone.
Your shade refreshing me.
Your warmth enveloping me.

Now the valley is scarted by the pot-pourri.
Afar it seems you are there.
Nearby you are nowhere to be seen.
Clutching happy memories forever.
You will always live in my heart.
Love you loads mum.


Chrispah MunyoroImage may contain: one or more people and closeup is currently a student of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming. at Kwekwe Polytechinic College in Zimbabwe . Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers ,poetry ,journalism and sports workshops.

Time of the Poet-Olfa Philo (Drid)! ( global literary arts exchange)

MP- Image may contain: one or more people, eyeglasses and closeup Time of  the  Poet  journal of  the  miombopublishing  blog  boast  of bringing to  the  readership   a crème-dela – crème  of poets and their insightful poetry . The journal stands to promote regional and international literary arts is a creative process that tend to continue inspire poets through other poets. It is a peer to peer exchange   and there is a lot of experience gained and shared in exchange. Thank you to social media and internet. The MP today presents to you readers a powerful poetess born in Tunisia, one great country North of Africa. The poet is a great pen soldier who wields her weapon against   social injustices and political oppression. We present to you Olfa Philo (Drid) is a Tunisian poetess. Our email remains chirasha-Editor)



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She plotted through all means to land up in my bed
Doesn’t she know that my pen can cut heads?

Enjoy now my jail and my choking walls!
And let me celebrate freedom’s and fame’s calls…

Lust won’t last,
You failed to forecast!

Discover now the illusional golden cage!
You’ll soon be haunted by boredom and rage…

You feel powerful to use an occult means grasped by none?
I am the sorcerer of words and of you I’ll make fun!

The demons you priory installed in your prey
Will soon turn against you and make you pay!




Artwork by Cameron Grey



From one birthday to another

You mistake Night for your father


Each célébration,

An angel whispers in your ears

And invites you to divorce your fears

Stretches out her hand for you

To fly together in the sky

And a spiritual experience try…


Alas, the (under)ground alleges

To be your sole home

Your bottle pretends

To be your sole cure

Your flesh claims to be

The sole locus of pleasure

And the demonic voices in your mind

Pretend to be the sole teachers of your kind…


From  one birthday to another

You mistake Night for your father


Each celebration

The same angel calls you

And to the realm of lightness invites you

Your heart she incites you to open wide

And your love and sensitivity never hide…


Alas, Ms. Loneliness keeps masquerading

As your best companion,

Mr.Loss keeps parading as  your

Inescapable destiny,

The painful past keeps invading

Your  weakened memory

And temptations all around

Keep disturbing your mind…



From  one birthday to another

You mistake Night for your father


Witches and bitches kept blurring

Your vision for years;

Changed the image of

That angel in your eyes

Made you numb, deaf and blind

To all her words, tears and cries…



From  one birthday to another

You mistake Night for your father



In the same vicious circle

You enjoy to run and play

How long will you there stay?

When do you intend to quit the stage?

Play a different role?

Write a different page?

Transcend the confines of flesh

And emancipate love from the locked cage?



When will you trust your heart

And a brand new life start?

When will you announce your re-birth ?

And declare your departure from earth?

Isn’t it time to be born anew

  • Not from your mom’s womb –

But from your pain’s tomb?




divorced kids
disconnect from me and keep close to your high-tech gadgets and Wi-Fi !
my womb has already disremembered you former connections with me…

disconnect from me and enjoy the alluring gifts and delicious food !
gestation is over and my umbilical cord has no more supplies for thee…

disconnect from me and enjoy the facilities of this icy world !
my comfy lap no longer remembers any trace or smell of thee…

disconnect from me and taste the soft and non-soft drinks !
the milk I breastfed you with for two whole years failed
to infuse love in thee…

disconnect from me now and enjoy your calm and deep sleep !
the unsleeping nights I spent rocking you in my arms faded into oblivion…

disconnect from me now and enjoy the luxurious spacious home!
my loft is not ample enough for demanding and spoiled offspring…

disconnect from me now and live (not leave) the life of your dreams !
I did leave my youth and dreams behind to keep that smile on your faces…

kick me out from your dad’s house now simply with your hollow eyes!
my altruistic nature will let you be happy and disremember all my blood ties…






“Take shots, share and show off !

We plan to turn all your minds off !


Take shots, share, show off & follow

Others to appear grandiose and inside hollow!


Cherish beauty, wealth & fame

And be the slaves we endeavor to tame !


Drop religions, books & schools

And be the clones of asses & fools !


Worship mirrors, screens, flesh & shells !

And send your values & souls to hell !”







fly, my devoted angels,
tell them that I can see
beyond their flesh,
their masks,
their lies,
& their pleas…


fly, my devoted angels,
tell them that I can detect
the demons colonizing them
& pure souls select…


fly, my devoted angels,
tell them that in their eyes
I can dive to read
their psyches & their hearts,
& against their
buried pains & fears
I can help them to fight…


fly, my devoted angels,
tell them that God exists
& that He makes you
guide & serve only
those who seek

His daily company …





Olfa Philo (Drid)Image may contain: 1 person, closeup is a Tunisian poetess. Her cause as a writer is to voice the buried emotions and phobias of the oppressed and downtrodden and to  unmask and expose hidden truths socially considered taboo or shameful. Her poems have appeared in many international anthologies and in literary journals worldwide. Some of her poems  have been translated into other languages while other poems were translated into paintings by the painter Nebiha Felah. Some other poems were turned into Italian songs performed by Fabio Martoglio. You can check her recited poems on her youtube channel below.


Resistance is Art- Atribute to Masekela by Tracy Robinson!


A tribute to the legendary Bra Hugh Masekela

Resistance is Art, South African master trumpeter Hugh Masekela maintained.
He passed away January 2018. His legendary Jazz music protested segregation, separation, slavery, and the government controlling political policy.
He consistently aimed to connect with the young South African Youth advocating preserving South African Heritage he considered in danger of dying.
The Legend was a Master Trumpeter, expressing his resistance to political injustice, corruption and long standing prejudice of his homeland.
Art is an expression of the human condition. Emotion in particular. Artists use a variety of mediums to carry their messages, like paintings, drawings, music, drama, poetry, prose as well as many other modes of expression.
Symbolism is a technique that he uses to represent his messages about political, cultural, environmental, and personal injustices so common in the region.
Any piece of art typically projects perspectives of the world unfolding around them as a sign of the times. Intentionally or not, the dynamics of society surface in tone, mood and attitude.
For example, his widely known song, Stimela,
Resistance is Art at its core and can help society recover and blossom during times of unrest and oppression. These forces often are deeply rooted in corruption and greed.
Oppressive regimes tend to impose inhumane conditions that target and separate specific groups of people.
These dehumanization tactics take a toll on the varying ethnic cultural identities. Stimela in contrast personifies the train bringing men to work long hours, bedded as hostiles, deep in the belly of the earth, to mine minerals and harvest golden veins only to drape and adorn the proud prejudiced privileged.
He animates with music the sound and effect of the steam locomotive chugging and cooing. The rhythm echoes the cries of the submissive passengers doing their time in the mine with little pay. And when they hear the Stimela, “They curse that Coal Train”
Prisoners of War (POW) survivors describe entire covert languages they have created with wisps of a broom, a knock on a pipe or two, birdsongs and many other creative ways to express their condition to a sympathetic ear. As humans, we need to express a voice to the voiceless and a rhythm to a heartbeat that assures a mutual understanding of things that have no words, actions that have no reactions, hope to situations that seem hopeless. Culture, some would say.
Like the Creole languages created from slave trade commerce jargon and some of the lingering mother tongue of the African American Slave Trade era.
In fact, the widely known song Amazing Grace (that saved a wretch like me) written by a former slave trader holds himself in contempt for his very own prior misunderstanding of goodwill and
Melody maker, Hugh Masekela’s music serves as a unification of South Africans in their continued struggle for peaceful protesting against segregation, separation, slavery, and government corruption.
His continued work and goal to connect with the young South African Youth in order to preserve their customs and culture of peaceful, positive, constructive symbolism that will serve to illustrate his high principals, resistance is art.

Tracy Robinson        Image may contain: 1 person, sitting, ocean, outdoor and water              is a writer in Georgia.
She has written short fiction for the “Spectrum” magazine and book reviews for the “Infantry” magazine. Her poetry has been published in anthologies such as “Expressions of the Heart.” She began writing professionally in 2000.
She has earned a B.A. in language and literature from Columbus State University. She has earned a Paralegal Career Diploma from Penn Foster.
Her passion is peace.


The Widow and the Cursed Peach Tree( A short Story) By Richmore Tera


MP– We are motivated  as we publish  a  mind spinning  short story by one Zimbabwe fast rising poet ,writer ,storyteller and journalist Richmore  Tera . This  is  the first 2018 Short Story entry in our Time  of the Writer blog journal . More stories are coming through  and we will unveiling them for  you readers  and our beloved followers here on MP and  other platforms.  Send more stories, follow  our  blog site,leave comments on the site and contact us at Mbizo Chirasha-Editor)


THE day that the peach tree in Naume’s yard was struck down by lightning one stormy night was the day that she never stopped grieving.

It was an old tree, this peach tree, old and solitary, like Naume herself who stayed alone in the big unfurnished house.

According to the local grapevine, Naume had ‘eaten’ her husband, Zairegondo, several years ago, so that she could own this house herself.

To aggravate it, so said the talk, the widow had made sure that she would never conceive by eating powerful herbs that were believed to sweep a man’s sperm from one’s womb like a broom.

“What kind of a house is it where a child is never heard crying?” was one proverb her neighbours always used whenever talk about Naume cropped up.

It was such a powerful aphorism whose meaning was close to yet another saying that they favoured.

“Does she want to be buried with a rat on her back?” “I heard she squandered her “prime time” selling her body to men at the local beerhall, swallowing family planning pills like a hoover.

“And when she eventually met up with Zairegondo, whom she blinded into marriage, it was too late for her to conceive because her womb had gotten so used to the pills that it spewed out the sperm.”

These were some of the whispers that were bandied around by the rumour-mongering women of her neighbourhood. And they would burst into cackling throaty laughter, beating their palms together in gleeful mockery.

The peach tree, like its owner, had never bore a single fruit in its lengthy existence.

It was a short stout tree, with sinuous branches laden with green and yellow leaves that made it look like a woman fresh from having a colourful hairdo.

Despite its ‘effeminate’ appearance, though, no one in the neighbourhood ever saw the tree in flower, let alone ate its fruit, in all its life.

There was a kind of filial closeness between Naume and the peach tree.

Every morning, she would wake up, go to the tree and wistfully observe it from root, trunk to branch. Yes, there were some roots that protruded from the ground like vines. Dutifully, like a mother or sister nursing a beloved daughter or twin, Naume would construct a round ridge at the base of the tree, and then water it. All the time, her eyes would be trained on the branches of the tree, as if she expected flowers to suddenly burst into bloom and transmogrify into fruit before her eyes.

But for years, such a miracle never happened.

Only until one morning, a few weeks before the fateful night when the tree was eventually struck down by lightning.

That particular morning, Naume had woken up late, having gone to bed late the previous night, for reasons only known to herself.

Parting the curtain to let in the sun, something outside had suddenly caught her sight. It was the peach tree, now resplendent with some pink petals like the hair of a delicious damsel freshly coiffured.

Gasping, and then smiling, the widow had flown out of the house, her nighties flowing behind her like a parachute.

She had hugged and kissed the tree like it was not something inanimate. All the time, tears were cascading from her eyes.

“Oh, you have done it! You! You! I am so proud of you!” she whispered gaily.

“Do what?” “It’s not me, it’s him,” said two little voices from somewhere up the tree.

Her heart felt like bursting.

Looking up, she saw two boys who had been rocking precariously from a branch, staring back at her with eyes laden with fear.

Pointing her broom at them, Naume’s anger suddenly exploded.

“You stinking little monkeys, what are you doing up there in my tree? I don’t care whether you fall and break your bones, but what I want to know is, who has sent you to shake these flowers off from my tree?”

Not waiting for an answer, she hurled the broom at them, which nicked one of them on the left buttock. As the boy tried to dodge the missile, he suddenly lost balance and came hurtling from the tree, falling onto the ground with a thud. He landed on one of his arms, whose fragile bones instantly snapped.

He screamed in pain.

The boy’s mother, who lived next door, was attracted by her son’s screaming voice and came charging from her house like a wounded rhino.

“John, what is it?” yelled the mother, chest heaving up and down, as she did and undid the wrapper around her waist.

“It’s my arm. Mbuya Muroyi hit me with her broom and I fell from the tree, causing my arm to break,” cried John, clutching at his little arm like it was a broken twig.

That is the day that Mai John and Naume never saw eye to eye again.

The other week, when Naume had visited somewhere far away, some of the mischievous kids in the neighbourhood had improvised a swing by tying a wire around one of the tree’s branches. The wire was then linked to an old tyre that the children used as a seat as they swung to and fro through the air. As they swung, the wire would cut into the branch, and red sap would ooze out of its deep wound.

When Zodwa finally returned home and saw the children rollicking on the swing tied to the tree, she was so disappointed and pained that she felt as if it was her shoulder that had been cut into by the wire.

As if by magic, the branch, that could no longer bear the children’s weight anymore, suddenly relented and heaved to the ground with a whooshing sound. The canopy of the branch buried the screaming children in its petticoats. They sustained scratches and fled to their homes like they had escaped death from the clutches of a fiend.

Then it had started raining. It was a storm that had broken in the morning and went on without respite throughout the whole day and into the night. Heavy lightning roared and tore through the storm in accompaniment. As the storm pelted on, a bolt of lightning suddenly cracked from the sky and cannoned into the peach tree.

Finding the buffeting storm and the lightning too much to withstand, the tree smashed to the muddy ground as if axed by a giant. Had not lightning and the storm hit the tree, still a colony of termites that had been eating up the roots of the tree, might have brought the tree to its end.

Eventually, when the storm subsided and day broke, Naume woke up with the intention of sweeping her yard. But she was shocked and pained to see the tree lying on its side, its petals scattered around its leafy branches like diamonds around the crown of a dead beautiful queen.

She mourned the tree like she had lost a dear relative. When her neighbours tried to console her, she was inconsolable.

From that day onwards, Naume was always seen clad in her black widow’s clothes, clothes she had dumped in her wardrobe on the fifth day after her husband’s death.

Then one day, she brewed a shocker for the people of the neighbourhood. She woke up in the morning, armed with the carpentry tools that her late husband used in his trade as a carpenter when he was still alive.

“What do you want to do with those tools?” asked her neighbor, Masamba as he peered inquisitively through hedge that bordered their houses.

Naume kept on lugging the huge tools-box until she reached to the place where the dead peach tree lay.

She sighed, and for a moment, she sat on the huge tools-box, breathing heavily from the effort of dragging the heavy load.

She cast a contemplative look at the tree trunk. Yes, the thickness was good, ideal for the job, she concluded.

Masamba kept on staring, gaping, wondering what this eccentric old widow was up to.

He quietly sipped something from his metal cup, grimaced, all the while watching her through the hedge.

“If you want to make a washing line, I would be happy to come over and assist,” he finally suggested with a lascivious, lopsided grin on his face.

Zodwa thought for a moment. Then a gem of an idea suddenly sprang into her mind.

“By the way, you too are also a carpenter?” she probed.

“Oh yes. Have you forgotten that I used to be your late husband’s assistant, eh, Naume?” he hesitated when it came to calling her by her first name. But almost everyone in the neighbourhood called her Naume, nothing more, nothing less, save for those string of dirty nicknames they had given her.

“Ah, then would you be of some assistance to me?” she asked, now facing his direction. Masamba’s heart started leap-frogging in his chest.

“Yes, yes. I…, I ….What is it that you want repaired? Has the frame of your bed collapsed?” he asked suggestively, a mischievous twinkle showing in his eye.

Naume seldom laughed. But this time around, she let out a titter.

“You make me laugh, Masamba, you jolly old fellow,” she said.

“Yes, the frame of my bed needs some repairing, but as of now, my sights are set on something else. Tell me you will help me through making the thing I want made?” she coaxed, managing to ladle some sweetness into her voice.

He choked on his drink from the metal cup, thumped his chest a few times with the edge of a clenched fist, and then replied: “Ma’am, I am at your service!”

Things were going exactly the right way he wanted them to go and suddenly he felt a spring of pleasure welling up inside him.

Steady, man, steady, he chided himself, lest the waves of over-excitement suddenly break out inside you and sweep you off your feet!

“Ah, then you can come over,” she offered.

In one mouthful, he gulped down the contents of whatever was left in his metal cup. He didn’t wait to go round and enter through the gate. Too late! He just poked his way through a hole in the hedge and in a few seconds he was sitting next to Naume on the tools-box.

In the sky, a pall of clouds that had been shutting out the sun drifted away, and the sun poured down its warm rays onto the earth, bathing them in sunshine.

“But you haven’t told me yet whatever that is you want to make?” he asked, casting a lopsided gaze at her. He could smell the perfume of her bathing soap or was it skin oil, coming from her. From the corner of his eyes, he could tell that she was still as beautiful as ever despite her age, and her chocolate-brown skin was still smooth and devoid of wrinkles. How she managed to keep herself in this pristine condition boggled his mind.

“What did you say?” she asked, turning and staring him squarely in the face.

He didn’t realise that he was thinking aloud.

“Oh, I was saying, what is it that you want me to help you make?” he fibbed. But she had heard him.

“Ah, okay. It’s something that you have been making for ages. I even used to see you making it with him before he passed away,” she paused and cast a look at him.

He averted his eyes.

She continued: “I want, I want, eh to help you me make…make eh ….make a coffin!”

At her words, he suddenly sprang up from the tools-box where he was sitting and leapt a distance away from her reach as if he had been sitting on live electricity cables. Or like someone who had suddenly realized that he was all the time sitting with a ghost which had just revealed itself.

“WHAT? Are you crazy? What do you need a coffin for?” he blurted out, almost turning to run away.

This woman was sure out of her mind, he concluded.

Then as an afterthought, he asked, “Or is it that you have found a customer who needs a coffin for a dead friend or relative?”

She couldn’t suppress her laughter. She laughed and laughed, face tilted up towards the sky, mouth wide open that he saw the roof her mouth.

He was now confused. Eccentric, sure this woman was! And very, very insane!

Then, as another blanket of clouds shut away the sun above, so did her expression suddenly changed to a somber and more serious mood.

She tensed, and her eyes focused into space, as if she was seeing some faraway place in a distant world visible to her alone.

“Come here,” she gestured with one hand, patting the top of the tools-box next to her where he had been sitting before. For a moment, he hesitated.

“Don’t worry, I won’t eat you,” she persuaded. “Do I scare you? I am still human, not a monster.”

Steeling himself, he then went and sat on the edge of the tools-box, maintaining a distance between the two of them.

“You see what, good old Masamba,” she started her story, her voice snapping in her throat as if the story she was about to tell him was very painful to relate.

“Ever since Zairegondo passed away, I have never experienced peace of mind. To me, it seems as if a piece of me was buried with him,” she swallowed hard and faced him.

“Again, do I scare you with these words?” He just shook his head nervously, not knowing whether he wanted to continue hearing her story or not.

She went on: “People call me all sorts of names, but they don’t really understand how much we loved each other Yes, I don’t conceive, and I never gave him a child, but he loved me like that. I tried many things, ate all sorts of herbs, approached many doctors and spiritual healers, but still I could not conceive. And then he died. Just like that, leaving me alone in this big empty house, mourning daily,”

She paused briefly and sighed.

“He was many things to me.” Her eyes were now glistening with tears.

The pall of clouds drifted off the face of the sun above and in poured a shower of sunshine, further accentuating the glint her in her moist eyes. He wanted to wipe them away with the back of his palm, but he restrained himself.

“He…he…was my husband, yes, but above everything else, he was my best friend, the best I have ever had. And I don’t think the void that he left in my heart will ever be filled.” She looked down at the dead peach tree lying at their feet before them on the ground.

“This tree you see here symbolized hope, life, to me. But look at it now, lying there dead. All hope for me snuffed out, never to bear any fruit for me,” she moaned, and her voice had now grown hoarse with emotion.

The emotion was palpable. He felt a pang of pain leaping from her heart and lodging itself inside him. God, this was too much, he said to himself. But he didn’t realize that he had actually mouthed the thought aloud. Again. Silly me, he rebuked himself.

“Yes, this is too much,” she agreed. “And this is the reason why I have asked you to come and help me make this coffin because I am tired of this world. God take me,” she whispered. Her voice now came out of her like a dry wind. It frightened him. But he didn’t run away. Instead, he surprised himself when he realized that he was now standing before her, then leaned down towards her and gathered her up in his firm embrace. Warm. The perfume of her bathing soap mingled with that of her skin oil wafted into her nostrils in a delicious scent.

He tilted her face towards his, and this time looked her straight in those glinting eyes. “Naume, Naume, Naume!” her name rolled in a cadence out of his lips.

“I understand what you are going through. Yes, you loved him very much. But now he is gone. And that is a fact you must learn to accept and live with. You can’t undo things. God has his own way of doing things.”

He paused, and could feel her ample bosom heaving against his chest, her breath against his face. She just gazed into his eyes, and felt her palms closing fast into his. This time, he didn’t flinch. He returned the gaze.

“You know what, Naume, all these years, I have been dying to tell you how I feel towards you. But I couldn’t bring myself to saying it, lest you shame me,” he said, letting out a nervous laugh.

“Then what has made you say it today, after all these years?” she bullied. Again, that short nervous laugh.

“It is probably because God realized that you don’t deserve that coffin of yours yet, after all, and this is the reason why he has sent me to deliver you from your death-wish,” he was now smiling down at her, face edging close to hers.

“So, should I call you Angel, since God has sent you like an angel to save me?” she asked with a mischievous grin and a twinkle in her eye. Then their lips interlocked. “Hoorayyyyyyy!!!!” delighted voices screamed in unison around them.

These were the people from the neighbourhood, both young and old, who had gathered around the new lovebirds as they poured their hearts out to one another.

That day, the lovers, basking in the sunshine of their newfound love, spent their day sewing, planishing, chiselling and hammering out a new bench from the trunk of the dead peach tree that lay in Naume’s yard.

The coffin project had been abandoned. Now it was a bench for two.



Rich more TeraImage may contain: 1 person, closeupTERA RICHImage may contain: 1 person, closeupTERA RICH (Richmore Tera is a poet, short story writer, playwright, actor and freelance journalist who once worked for Zimpapers (writing for The Herald, Sunday Mail, Kwayedza, Manica Post, H-Metro) as a reporter but currently focusing on his creative work. Currently, he is the Associate Editor of Chitungiwza Central Hospital’s weelky online newsletter. His works have been read in Zimbabwe, Africa and the Dispora in various publications which he contributes to. He is the author of the monograph, “Here Leaves Silently Fall, a collection of poems, which was published by Arts Initiates in Namibia in 2009)







Time of the Poet with Ecuadorian Word Slingers( Global Literary Arts Exchange)

MPImage may contain: one or more people, eyeglasses and closeup Dearest  Ecuadorian Gods and Goddesses of Verse , thank you for birthing good poets, great poets who are made of the fabric of love , oozing passion  and  profound creativity. Thumbs  up  to  you  Alan Britt , a mesmerizing   and powerful  Poet  from Ecuador , You believe  in brewing  dregs  of together . Griots and Pen Wielders  of  Ecuador  ,the  land of verses, Your calabashes  of verse shriek  with  frothing brew  of metaphor , satire ,irony  and  your spirits.  ALUTA to God of Verses for   blessing Ecuador  with Poets .Viva  Ecuador  the land of words .Miombo Publishing  tightly hug  the great poets of this  land  and let  imbibers  drink  to the dregs   from this  calabash  of sweet  verses.  This bilingual Journal( English  and Spanish) consists of  10 Poets  including  master father  Poet  who  compiled  the Journal  and thank  you to Professor Gina  .E.Lopez  for  translating  the poems .  Viva Poetry Solidarity, Viva Global  creative Exchange VIVA! Gracias Ecuador Gracias!


(For George Nelson Preston)

Hungry, as in haven’t eaten for days,
weeks, belly full of scorpions
from insults hurled like grenades.

The League of Nations reincorporated,
but the new League of Nations has a budget
that doesn’t include my bursting belly;
the new League of Nations has bigger
fish to fry; meanwhile my belly full
of Aunts, Uncles, Cousins,
& distant birth parents doesn’t
qualify me for the neediest continent
on this planet.

Their vision.

Not mine.

Alan BrittImage may contain: 1 person  has published over 3,000 poems nationally and internationally in such places as Agni, Bitter Oleander, Bloomsbury Review, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Christian Science Monitor, Confrontation, English Journal, Epoch, Flint Hills Review, International Gallerie (India), Kansas Quarterly, Letras (Chile), Magyar Naplo (Hungary), Midwest Quarterly, Minnesota Review, Missouri Review, New Letters, A New Ulster (Ireland), Northwest Review, Osiris, Pedrada Zurda (Ecuador), Poet’s Market, Queen’s Quarterly (Canada), Revista/Review Interamericana (Puerto Rico), Revista Solar (Mexico), Roanoke Review, Steaua (Romania), Sunstone, Tulane Review, Wasafiri (UK), The Writer’s Journal, and Zaira Journal (Philippines). His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. He has published 16 books of poetry. He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.

ALAN BRITT: Library of Congress Interview:
ALAN BRITT, 233 Northway Road, Reisterstown, MD 21136, USA
(PH: 443-834-8105…EM:


I’m scared…
I’m afraid to grow old,
to discover that I’m an old man:
a being
without any curiosity,
with all the useless and impossible opportunities,
with all the things already known and invented,
without challenges or defiance’s…
no eagerness to conquer death
resigned to be forgotten and lost in the vulgar anonymity…

I’m afraid to remain as a ghost,
a ghost who wanders,
who is banging his head against the walls,
without understanding the meaning of life,
a dark, embittered and morose skeleton dragging chains,
a ghost chained to his obsessions of sadness and bitterness,
grudges dead and missing…

To reach the old age seems more tragic than death,
I feel that being old is the antechamber of hell
if it is not yet hell itself…
I don’t want to be old…
I want to die with the illusion to discover everything,
to taste everything as the first day…

(Translated by Gina E. López)

Viejos fantasmas, y espectros

Tengo miedo…
me espata llegar a la vejez,
a descubrir que soy un viejo:
un ser
sin ninguna curiosidad,
con todas las oportunidades inútiles e imposibles,
con todas las cosas ya conocidas e inventadas,
sin retos ni desafíos…
sin ninguna afán de vencer la muerte
resignado al olvido y a perderse en el vulgar anonimato…

Tengo miedo a quedarme como un fantasma,
un espectro que deambula,
golpeándose la cabeza contra los muros,
sin entender el significado de la vida,
un esqueleto oscuro, amargado y taciturno que arrastra cadenas,
un aparecido encadenado a sus obsesiones de tristezas y rencores muertos y desaparecidos…

Llegar a la vejez me parece más trágico que la muerte,
siento que la vejez es la antesala del infierno
sino es ya el infierno mismo…
Yo no quiero ser viejo…
quiero morir con la ilusión de descubrir todo,
de saborear todas las cosas como el primer día…

Fermin H. Sandoval  Image may contain: 1 person, eating, sitting, table, food and indoor is the Director of Studies at the Seminario Mayor Nuestra Señora at the Diocese of Ibarra Otavalo Institute of Anthropology and the University of Otavalo. He studied the morality of theology (Teologia Morale) at Facolta Teologica dell’Italia Settentrionale. He lives in Otavalo, Ecuador


Often, happens we are what we don’t want
Happens that when we don´t reach what we want
We sow in the garden, trees outside of the soul
To simply say we have them
To say that the important thing was to sow

Often, happens that we paint the house of green
At not finding turquoise in the nearest hardware store
Happens that, at wanting everything so fast, it gets lost
And we earn what it seemed to be.

It also happens that the sum of silences
It´s the sum of the unrealized desires
And we stop writing

Outside of the failures for finding what it´s being searched
We precipitate ourselves in the negation of the word
We anticipate at the time of receiving
We become cowards

(Translated by Gina E. López)


Pasa seguido que somos lo que no queremos
Pasa que cuando lo que deseamos no se alcanza
Sembramos en el patio árboles ajenos al alma
Para decir que los tenemos simplemente
Para decir que lo importante era sembrar
Pasa seguido que pintamos la casa de verde
Por no encontrar el turquesa en la ferretería más cercana
Pasa que al quererlo todo tan rápido, se pierde
Y se gana lo que parecía ser
Pasa también que la suma de silencios
Es la suma de los deseos irrealizados
Y dejamos de escribir
Fuera de los fracasos por encontrar lo buscado
Nos abismamos en la negación de la palabra
Nos adelantamos al tiempo de recibir
Nos convertimos en cobardes

Ruth Patricia RodríguezImage may contain: 1 person, smiling, standing, ocean, outdoor, water and nature is a novel and poetry writer. Winner of national contests of children’s and youth stories. Representative of Ecuador in the World Assembly of Youth Artists for Peace, in the Republic of Bulgaria. In 2005 he received the Pablo Palacio award, to literary merit, granted by the Provincial Council of Loja. His works include: more than a dream (1978, tale), from the blue mud (1988, poetic prose and story). The balcony of colors (1990, tale), servant tongue (1993, poetry). At the edge of Clepsidra (1995, novel).Deseabulos (1998, tale anthology of the “Imaginar” Cultural Network). Impudica (2007, poetry). Writing is Formidable (2008, text of study for essay). Crystal Prostitutes (2010, novel). The certainty of omens (2011, collective book of short stories). The sea in me (2012, poetry). Formidable essays (2014, study for essay writing) to the left of the poem (poetry, 2014). Teacher at the Universidad San Francisco de Quito


Thought is an obstinate
compasss that pushes
towards eternity.

One´s voice aches for the pleasure of giving fragance to the word

irreverent man passes with his word
from time immemorial
his anguish transpires within the mysteries that this
imagination breathes into him
he comes back upon his damp remains
upon the blood that still throbs
in his aching

he lifts his throat drunken with rage
and ruptures
all of his senses rear up
an old syllable writhes
like a fish upon
the crest of a wave of obsidian

the inescapable journey moves through the
with a hunger for knowledge

the pensive tone of the creator
the utterance expires and another sprouts and

An ancient jazz
comes to life between the pages of a book
the memory awaits quietly its tribute
to death
among metallic sighs

the banished eyes poke around the
accursed semantic

Where is the illumination of the word
where is the revolution of this age
that cannot
passively accept things

where is the cataclysm of memory
that ought to
stir us.

The word arises, it shows its teeth
with fury
it revolts
and spews poetry with its angels
and demons
on its back.

(Translated by Gina E. López)


El pensamiento es una obstinada
brújula que empuja
hacia la eternidad.

Duele la voz por el júbilo de darle olor a la

pasa el hombre irreverente con su verbo
por los tiempos de los tiempos
transpira su ansiedad en los misterios que su
imaginación le insufla
vuelve sobre sus húmedos vestigios
sobre la sangre que todavía late
entre sus huesos

levanta su garganta ebria de furias
y desgarramientos
se encabritan todos sus sentidos
una vieja sílaba se convulsiona
como un pez sobre
la cresta de una ola de obsidiana

el viaje inevitable transita por la
con hambre de saber se devora

el tono pensativo del
agoniza la frase y brota otra y otra.

Un viejo jazz
despierta entre las hojas de un libro
el recuerdo espera tranquilo su tributo
de muerte
entre oyes metálicos

los ojos exiliados hurgan en el
maldito discurrir

Dónde está la iluminación de la palabra
dónde está la revolución de esta edad
que no puede
aceptar pasivamente las cosas

dónde está el cataclismo de la memoria
que debe conmovernos.

La palabra se eleva saca sus dientes
con ira
se subleva
y brota la poesía con sus ángeles
y demonios
a cuestas.

Simon Guzman ZavalaImage may contain: 1 person, Guayaquil, Ecuador. Poet, lawyer and university professor. He has given recitals in the cities of Spain, Cuba, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Peru, Chile, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Bolivia, Uruguay, Argentina and Brazil and in almost all major cities in Ecuador. Has won national awards, among others: First National Poets Prize novel, House of Ecuadorian Culture, 1966; Only prize in the National Poetry Contest University, teachers 1982; and international, such as the Latin American Poetry Prize Foundation GIVRE Buenos Aires, Argentina 1982; International Award ABRACE, Montevideo, Uruguay, 2007 by his book GRAFIAS. Some publications are: “Dimension of a passerby”, 1973; “Anatomy of a shout” 1974; “Biography Circular” 1976; “Song of hope” 1979; “Songs of Fire” 1983;” Man Manifesto” 1984; “Lascivious” 1981; “Reconstruction of the truth” 1992; “Physiognomies” 1998; “Memorial” 1996; “Poets of the twentieth century” 2002 “Poetic Anthology” 2003; “The forms diluted” (poems of adolescence) 2003; “Traces / Marks” 2006; “Grafias” 2007. Her poetry has been translated into English, French, Hebrew, Portuguese, Italian, German, Romanian and Arabic


The corner where a eucalyptus grows today
used to be the cafe of our times.
There we lived nights, and a thousand and one
there appeared Aladdin and his bad genie,
there we were larger than destiny.

In the cafe across the street from this hill
we lived the most flighty moments:
like a phonograph without its trumpet,
much like an explosion of tangerines.

There I fell in love with your dress,
there I ask about love on napkins
from the wisdom of the waiter.
There I was until the dawn became day
until the dead were resurrected,
until Lazarus arose.

There came Goliath with his powers
and there David was born from our longings,
there souls fought and souls were made.

On this side of the city,
where the sun shines less than a minute,
was the cafe of our age,
that fed the hungry,
and gave drink to the thirsty.

There, where now grows a eucalyptus
that wants to make the sidewalk happy.

(Translated by Ana Blum)


La esquina donde hoy crece un eucalipto
era antes el café de nuestras horas.
Allí vivimos noches y mil y una,
allí asomó Aladino y su mal genio,
allí éramos más grandes que el destino.

En el café de enfrente de esta loma
vivimos los más pájaros momentos:
igual que una vitrola sin su trompa,
tanto como una explosión de mandarinas.

Allí me enamoré de tu vestido,
allí pedí el amor en servilletas
a la sabiduría del mesero.
Allí estuve hasta que el alba se haga día,
hasta que los muertos resuciten,
hasta que Lázaro levante.

Allí llegó Goliat con sus poderes
y allí nació el David de nuestras ansias,
allí pelearon y allí se hicieron almas.

En este lado de la ciudad,
donde el sol es poco menos que un minuto,
estuvo el café de nuestra edad,
que dio de comer al hambriento
y beber al bebiento.

Allí, donde ahora crece un eucalipto
que quiere hacer feliz a la vereda.

Xavier Oquendo TroncosoImage may contain: one or more people studied journalism at the Central University of Ecuador. He works with the Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana to organize and participate in readings and presentations throughout Ecuador and South America. Originally from Ambato, Ecuador, he currently lives in Quito, Ecuador.


or the beating heart of death
that cannot find an exit and rips itself in front of me.

How I wish I could tell the difference,
but there are so many pills in my body
that I can’t.

Great-grandfather, if he lived,
would hide the last pinch of morphine in his drawer
–as the secret of a zealous pharmacist—
and the stars above the dome would escape at the sight of my lightness.

But who could have understood this pain of mine,
for life is irrefutable in childhood.

Great-grandmother in her coffin under the bed
came to speak about the darknesses we share.
Now I don’t know whether committing was a good idea.
The terror I carry makes words tremble.
If I ignore them
they forget me.

So much orphanhood–not again.

(Translated by Gina E. López)

No sé si será la sangre galopándome en la espalda
o el latido de la muerte
que no encuentra una salida y se desgarra frente a mí.

Cómo quisiera distinguir…
pero son tantas las pastillas en mi cuerpo
que no sé.

El bisabuelo, si viviera,
escondería en su cajón la última pizca de morfina
-en confidencia de celoso boticario-
y las estrellas sobre el domo escaparían al mirar mi levedad.

Mas quién me iba a comprender este dolor
si en la niñez la vida es algo irrefutable.

La bisabuela en su ataúd bajo la cama
vino a decir oscuridades compartidas.
Ahora no sé si fue buena idea comprometerme.
El espanto que llevo sacude palabras.
Si las dejo de lado
me olvidan.

Semejante orfandad no otra vez.

Marialuz Albuja BayasImage may contain: 1 person, smiling, closeup was born in Quito, 1972. Her published poetry works include: Las naranjas y el mar (1997), Llevo de la luna un rayo (1999), Paisaje de sal (2004), La pendiente imposible (2008), published and awarded by the Ministry of Culture of Ecuador, Detrás de la brisa (2013), honorable mention by the Cesar Devila Andrade Award committee and Cristales invisibles (personal anthology, Popayan, Colombia, 2013). Her works have been partially translated into English, Portuguese, Italian, French and Basque, and have been published in anthologies within Ecuador, Latin America and Europe. She has also published the poetry books for children Cuando cierro mis ojos and Cuando duerme el sol, and is co-founder of the Pubishing House Rascacielos.


Burning up my tears
upon dusk
aware that you are not returning
because your absence drowns both of us,
with fury I rupture from my skin
the miracle, the kisses and the music.

I let myself die
and my self becomes an abandoned graveyard
where our grim memories
start to disappear.

I let myself die
and I mourn in a corner
the loss of our scent.
Black pirate of my blue body,
I kill you
with the sorrow of angels
overwhelmed by eternity
and the anguish of that god
made of clay
with no more questions to
answer to.

* * *

A woman made of blood
that keeps us alive as her foodstuff,
and a dark entity that
never goes outside,
wander around the wine
and command us
to surrender our lives.

(Translated by Gina E. López)


de quemar las lágrimas
junto al ocaso
y saber que no puedes regresar
porque mi ausencia nos ahoga a los dos,
arranco con furia
de la piel el milagro,
los besos y la música

Me dejo morir
y mi ser se vuelve un cementerio abandonado
donde se pierden
descarnadas nuestras memorias.

Me dejo morir
y en una esquina guardo luto
por nuestro olor.
Pirata negra de mi cuerpo azul,
te mato
con el dolor de los ángeles
que están cansados de la eternidad
y la angustia de ese dios de barro
que ya no tiene más
preguntas que responder.

* * *

Una mujer de sangre
que nos mantiene vivos para alimentarse
y un ser oscuro que
nunca sale
se pasean en el vino
y reclaman de nosotros
nuestra vida


Gabriel Cisneros AbedrabboImage may contain: 1 person, standing (Latacunga – Ecuador , 1972) is a writer, journalist, and cultural promoter. At a very early age he moved to Riobamba where he grew as a person, and as a writer in this yet unfinished journey. Mr. Cisneros has published serveral books of poetry: Ceremonias de amor y otros rituales(1996),Ego de piel y Cópula panteísta(2003), El otro Dios que soy Yo y Ombligo al infierno(2004),Mujeres para Morir(2005),Peregrinaje y Raptos(2006),Para Justificar el Aire en los Pulmones(2009),20 Giros en la Pólvora y Otros Textos (2010),Mi Yo Malo 2012, y Pieles (2014). His poems have also appeared in journals home and abroad. GabrielCisneros served as President of the Chimborazo branch of Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana Benjamín Carrión, and he is currently Vice-President ofCasa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana nationwide


Incited to leap by the glass at the bottom
they keep being spiked stars
… I let myself fall
I use up every word
Every instant of simulated oxygen
… hitting the ground await
alightly instant of universo

(Translated by Gina E. López)


Siguen siendo estrellas puntiagudas
…me dejo caer
Agoto cada palabra
Cada instante de oxigeno disimulado
…de bruces espero
Un ligero instante de universe

Luis Enrique Yaulema Image may contain: 1 person, sitting(Riobamba, Ecuador, 1968).
Self-taught poet, cultural manager, precocious reader and solitary by nature, its texts evoke an existential love, has published three books of poetry with some waiting time intervals gradually mature his poetic voice, his first poetry book “Theorems” comes out in 1996, the second “TRAVERSA” in 2005, published in Ibiza Spain and “THREE” published in 2011 under the auspices of the House of Culture Core Chimborazo. Lover short texts, has participated in several national and international meetings, poetry flies free woman dreams and in a nature as inspiring principle


Cultural kaleidoscope.
Blankets dreams and illusions,
from a vagabond train
to the elegant lady of Madison avenue.

Privileged space
within the blue sphere
where you can visit any place, any time.

Linguistic range,
blooms in a colorful spring
peeping out in summer
in the autumn black and white elegance covers you
later completed by a winter coat.

You´re the struggle —
spell that binds us, that anchors the boat,
whose port we are unable to leave.

(Translated by Gina E. López)

New York City

Calidoscopio cultural.
Cobijas sueños e ilusiones,
desde un vagabundo tren
hasta la dama elegante de la avenida madison.

Espacio privilegiado
dentro de la esfera azul
donde se puede visitar cualquier lugar,
cualquier tiempo.

Abanico lingüístico,
floreces en colorido de primavera,
ventaneas en lo descubierto del verano,
en el otoño te cubres de elegancia blanca y negra
para luego terminar en el abrigo de invierno.

Eres la lucha-hechizo que nos ata, cual ancla al barco
de cuyo puerto es imposible partir.

Gina E. LópezImage may contain: 1 person, smiling, standing is a poet, university professor and translator. Is a bachelor of arts in communication and marketing from the University of Sao Paulo, Brazil. Her master´s degree in Latin America literature was conducted at the University of St. John´s, county of queens, NY. She has dedicated her time to the teaching of Spanish as a second language at universities and colleges of this city and in Ecuador, her native country, where she is teaching Latin American literature. She is a founding member of the bilingual magazine “Entre Rascacielos” and belongs to the north-west chapter of the National Society Hispanic honor Sigma Delta Pi at the University of St. John´s. Formed part of the editorial committee of the magazine Hybrid, published by alumni of the Graduate Center belonging to the New York University (NYC). Her poetry has been presented at the Instituto Cervantes (2005) and the Americas Society (2007) both entities in New York; as well as at festival “Poets in New York” (2008), “The Americas Poetry in New York City” (2010) and “Manta city of letters” (2014) among others.


And beyond your eyes

Your eyes, like your hands,
as your mouth,
restoration work in

(Translated by Gina E. López)


Y más allá de tus ojos

Tus ojos, como tus manos,
como tu boca,
trabajan en la restauración
de los recuerdos.

Victoria Tobar Fierro (Ambato, 1943). Ahe has published poems And suddenly (1983), victories and defeats (1991), Word accomplice (1995), The victory, rose and vice versa -Antología- (1997) and References since (2001), Poetry disheveled (2006 ). In 2014 she published her memoir “La Toya”. The municipality of the city gives the award “Juan Leon Mera” by her first book in 1983. She has been selected in several anthologies of Ecuadorian and Latin American poetry; Cultural activist, media columnist and literary critic. She is one of the most important figures of contemporary poetry of Ecuador